Good Night, My Dear
by LadyShiva17
Summary: Several weeks after Bonnie Butler's death, Mammy has gone bck to Tara, and Rhett and Scarlett are alone. She has a plan, he has an ultimatum.


**A/N:** Hi, here it is! (Feel free to chew me out for being a day overdue.) So, this is my frist attempt at a Gone With The Wind fic, so let me know if everything is in order. (Just don't hurt my feelings.) This one-shot is set weeks after Bonnie Butler has died. Mammy has just gone back to Tara, and it goes from there. Maybe, if this turns out okay, I will try writing other one-shots (make them reeally long chapters) but about other situations in GWTW or even in the sequel, Scarlett. Oh, yes, you'lll notice that I took some references from Alexandra's _Scarlett_. Anyways, enjoy!

PS: I decided to make Rhett 6'2'' because I'm not positive of his actual height in the book, and Clark Gable was 6'1'', and Rhett Butler wears shoes. :P Hope that's all right.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Gone With the Wind_ by Margaret Mitchell or _Scarlett _by Alexandra Ripley or any of the characters or anything like that. Don't sue me.

* * *

"Good Night, My Dear."

Rhett Butler's frustrated voice rang out within the dark, carpeted hall, echoing off of the carved mahogany walls. Only one gas jet was lit, and it gave off an eerie glow, the plush red carpet affecting the light to a faint reddish-amber. The westward hall of the gothic Peachtree Street house was virtually unfurnished and bare, excepting three additional gaslights that went unlit, and a small, black end table that stood directly beneath the high, curtained window at the very end of the thirty foot hall. On it was a single white doily, barely the size of a saucer, which conspicuously stood out from the majority of the surrounding decor.

In this west wing of the Butler home, on the second floor of the mansion, three rooms branched from the macabre hallway: Scarlett O'Hara Butler's bedroom, Scarlett's private powder room, which was conveniently connected to the bedroom, and a small, rectangular study that was for Scarlett's own personal use. Scarlett's bedroom was at the farthest end of the great, dark hall and that was where Rhett Butler's impatient feet were marching him. His mouth twisted into a grimace and he called out a second time.

"Scarlett!"

His arms swung beside him in shortlived arcs, his hands taut, their fingers spread out like two fans. Rhett stalked down the hall towards the last elaborately carved door on the end.

...

Not quite two hours ago, Rhett had arrived home after escorting Mammy to the train station. Seeing her off to Tara with a forced smile plastered on his face returned by her own white teeth flashing a dejected-looking farewell grin, he directed Elias to return the carriage, mounted his horse and meandered his way back to his and Scarlett's monstrosity of a home.

Nearly four wretched weeks had passed since their little Bonnie, their favorite child, had been killed. Eleanor Butler, Rhett's grieving mother, had – like most everyone who knew the rosy-cheeked child – completely adored her granddaughter since the moment Rhett had first brought Bonnie to see her in Charleston, just a few months before the accident. With tearstained cheeks, she had reluctantly traveled back to Charleston one week ago.

Scarlett's sister, Suellen and her husband Will Benteen, who'd left their several little girls home at Tara, also came to aid Scarlett with the funeral arrangments. They, too, had returned to Tara, albeit slightly earlier than Eleanor Butler's departure. Scarlett had lost all patience with her younger sister sooner than expected, even in her grief.

During those weeks, the Wilkeses home on Ivy Street had become a safe haven for Wade Hampton Hamilton and Ella Lorena Kennedy, Scarlett's other two children. Pittypat's house, too, was open for the quiet, confused children whenever their mother and Uncle Rhett needed undisturbed peace and quiet. Aunt Melly's house was a refuge, a protective, normal place where Wade and Ella were always welcome and were allowed to play with Beau Wilkes as long as they wanted.

Since Rhett was unfit to explain or comfort anyone, least of all himself, Scarlett and Mammy had the resposibility of informing the two bewildered children that their beloved little sister had died. Wade and Ella were told about Bonnie well before her memorial service and were spared the sickening details as well as the mournful despair of their two parents, who strove to compose themselves before ever seeing either child. Afterwards, however, both Mammy and Scarlett continued to send them, accompanied by Pork, down the street to Miss Melly's house or Miss Pitty's. It was best that the children were away from home and shielded from the violent arguments that soon erupted between Mother and Uncle Rhett. Especially when Rhett habitually started galloping home night after night already mean and drunk during those first few days following their sister's accident.

Of course, once affairs had come to an end and the funeral was finally over with, and Uncle Rhett had started coming home more often sober than drunk, Wade and Ella were welcomed back into their home. But in their absence, their home had changed. Mother frequently stayed locked in her room, alone, until noon. And Uncle Rhett wasn't as animated and friendly around Scarlett's children as he used to be. He seemed listless and somehow absent – an absence that even Scarlett couldn't completely ignore. Both his wife and stepchildren noticed how, sometimes, he was unable to even look them in the eye.

It never occured to them, or anyone for that matter, just how much Rhett Butler was torturing himself, blaming himself for the deaths, first, of Scarlett's unborn child, and then of his ever precious Bonnie Blue. No one truly suspected the truth that had been boiling inside of Rhett Butler's broken heart. Four weeks later, Scarlett's family had gone home to Tara, his own dear mother had gone home to Charleston, and then today, Mammy had finally abandoned them, too, for Tara. Rhett wanted nothing more in the whole world than to forget those last awful weeks.

Ever since Bonnie's funeral Rhett and Scarlett had not spoken to each other like husband and wife normally do. Mammy was gone, and Wade and Ella were usually out of the house these days, visiting Beau at Melanie's or asking Aunt Pitty for one of the bonbons that she had brought back with her from Macon, and so the big, gothic house on Peachtree Street was very still.

Scarlett gave up waiting for the perfect time to apologize to Rhett for saying the things she had after their daughter's death, so she never did, even though the regret and remorse tore relentlessly at her heart. And guilt-stricken Rhett couldn't bring himself to admit what he thought was true: that he'd killed both of their children. After all, Scarlett had said it herself: he was a murderer.

Rhett's heavy drinking had stopped, though, and he was more often present at the dinner table, which pleased Scarlett. But they were taciturn dinners. Scarlett sat staring at her food, avoiding Rhett's distant gaze and murmuring soft replies to Ella's giddy babbling. Wade, who was older than is half-sister, knowingly kept silent during mealtime, and Uncle Rhett no longer prodded him for conversation.

...

Aunt Pittypat and India Wilkes had taken Ella to Five Points to shop for yellow ribbons today, and Wade was over at Melanie and Ashley's house, keeping Beau company. The train that was to take Mammy back home to Tara had departed at one o'clock that afternoon. Scarlett awoke early enough to eat a late breakfast and offer Mammy a reluctant, somewhat resentful, good-by before retreating to her study to take care of business matters concerning Kennedy's Emporium.

Rhett escorted Mammy and Elias to the depot with an air of indifference that only Mammy could see through. The air was cold, but the sun managed to peek through the clouds as Rhett put her on the train headed to Jonesboro. He quickly kissed her soft, shiny cheek good-by and stepped away from the tracks. Mammy stared sadly through the muddled glass window at the most well-groomed, most despondant man at the station. He stared back and offered a half-hearted smile, which she returned with equal half-heartedness. Finally, Rhett turned and walked out of her view, towards Elias and the carriage.

"Guh'by, Mist' Rhett," she whispered into the glass and offered a silent prayer for the two drowning people that would remain in the same house she simply could not.

...

The thick, gray clouds broke again and this time, rather than letting cracks of sunshine through, heavy rain started to pour. Scarlett was in the parlor, standing hidden at the safely curtained window when she spotted Rhett approaching, his horse at a trot. He had left the house with only a light, black overcoat and one of his black panama hats for protection, and Scarlett could see that both were soaked through, though Rhett didn't seem to care. His head was lowered, and his black brows furrowed as if he had something weighing on his mind. Rain was running off the brim of his hat, and the soggy animal he rode was blinking furiously from the water droplets forming on his thick black lashes.

Why, he'll catch cold before he even gets through the door! Scarlett thought. Then she remembered the fire Pork had lit, there in the parlor, only ten minutes before. Rhett was turing at the side of the house now, heading towards the stable, and she quickly withdrew from the parlor window, lest she be caught in the act of worrying over her husband by said husband. She rang the bellcord and told Dilcey, when she appeared, to stoke and add an extra log to the fire before bringing a hot pot of tea into the parlor, along with cakes and fresh cigars for Rhett. Satisfied, Scarlett looked about the room one last time. Ah, yes, the decanter was full, just in case Rhett preferred brandy over the sassafrass tea that Dilcey had steeping in the kitchen. Finally, she settled on the red velvet settee with her new copy of Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing _and waited.

The parlor had a double door entrance that opened into one side of the front foyer, and the doors remained customarily open, allowing for a side view of the huge, oak front doors of the Peachtree Street house. Scarlett had changed into her evening frock, dyed mouring black, and wore the diamond earbobs that Rhett used to like so much, despite that jewellry wasn't proper to wear during periods of mourning. Scarlett shrugged it off. She wasn't going out tonight anyway.

Melanie Wilkes had invited Aunt Pittypat to dine with her family that night, and Pitty had sent Uncle Peter over earlier that day to tell Scarlett that Wade and Ella were invited to stay for dinner as well.

He gave their excuse for inviting only the children when he said, "Miss Pitty an' Miss Melly say it'd be mighty fine fo' Miss Scarlett and Cap'n Butler to be 'lone togethuh fo' once."

Scarlett was slightly relieved that he said this for, had she and Rhett been invited, she would have declined on her own. Scarlett did not wish to further burdon Melanie with her presence and – more importantly in her mind – she knew that her presence would cause Ashley discomfort. Awkwardness still breathed between she and Ashley, ever since that day at the mill, the day of Ashley's surprise birthday party arranged by Melly. Even after all that had happened since that day, she was still held at a distance from Ashley, held at bay by his confounded honor and dignity, and it seemed that it would be that way forever after. Somehow, though, Scarlett minded much less than she thought she would. After all, she loved Ashley Wilkes, didn't she?

She had shaken her pretty head at this odd question and placed it, along with the answer, at the back of her mind until a later date. At any rate, she and Rhett would have the evening alone together. So, while Rhett had gone to the depot with Mammy, Scarlett had finished her business affairs in the small study in the west wing and then formulated a plan that would, she hoped, change things in the house on Peachtree Street for the better.

...

When the sound of splashing footsteps coming up the front walk could be heard, Scarlett frantically flung her Shakespeare down on the cushion next to her and yanked the bellcord for Dilcey, who'd been instructed to bring the refreshments and cigars when Rhett arrived. Then, biting her lips, she ignited in them that desired swollen, blood-red color and pinched her cheeks, making them glow fresh pink. Pork was there, opening the front doors before Rhett even had the chance to knock on them, and Scarlett was glad that she'd chosen the settee, for there was a clear view of it through the parlor entrance from the foyer. Rhett would surely notice her sitting there.

Pork greeted his master, also commenting on the weather and she heard Rhett reply in kind, but in a lowered voice. Scarlett didn't hear the rest. Clutching the play in her hands, she swiveled her torso round, facing the foyer, so she could greet Rhett when he came in. She watched as he easily freed himself of his overcoat and hat, which were both weighty with rainwater and handed them to Pork. Then, without a glance in the direction of the parlor where his wife eagerly waited, he went swiftly past and up the grand, carpeted staircase toward his bedroom, leaving a momentarily disappointed Scarlett sitting on the divan, her stubborn jaw slack.

...

Upstairs in his own bedroom, Rhett Butler closed the door and started to change out of his wet clothes and into a fresh, starched outfit. He didn't absolutely care which clothes he chose, as long as they were solemn. In the end, he stood before the lengthwise pier glass and regarded the dark gray trousers, white linen blouse, and perfectly tailored black jacket. He did not want to bother with a cravat just then, but thought better of it and chose one speckled with gray and black. He replaced his slick, sloshy shoes with a new pair. Glancing from the mirror to his dressing table, a ring-shaped band of black fabric caught his earnestly avoiding eye. These bands were for gentlemen to wear and, in so doing, signify to the public that they were in a period of mourning.

Rhett hadn't worn his band today when he'd taken Mammy to the the station. In fact, he'd hardly worn it at all since the funeral, and he was thankful that society had less strict rules concerning mourning customs for gentlemen than for ladies. He thought briefly of Scarlett and his mother, who would both be wearing black for at least the next six months –his mother by choice and Scarlett out of propriety. Of course, it was never difficult for Scarlett to be dissuaded from such tedious customs as honoring the dead. He was sure she'd get out of it again somehow. As for himself, he avoided wearing the proper mourning band around his sleeve when in public, but he did make an effort to wear only dark, black-related items of clothing. Poor Scarlett, thought Rhett, smirking. She actually had to dye her frocks.

Finally content with his freshened appearance, Rhett left his room and made a slow succession down the stairs. He knew that Scarlett had been waiting for him when he arrived, and he knew that she would be sorely disappointed that he had rudely sped past without even greeting her, but Rhett really didn't care because he also knew that Scarlett couldn't be put out for too long a time.

Pork had told him about Miss Melanie's invitation to the children when he relieved Rhett of his soaked things in the foyer. Rhett didn't comment, but instead practically ran upstairs to change. He also knew Scarlett to always take advantage of certain situations. He'd figure out what she thought she wanted soon enough.

...

Dilcey had obediently brought the tea and cakes and cigars into the parlor and was gently arranging the tray to sit upon a small, painted bergundy table in the center of the room, while Scarlett sat on the settee, frowning. She understood why he had made so swift a getaway to his room – obviously he needed to change clothes. However, Scarlett was perturbed because he hadn't even said hello. She bit her lip, nervously, as she contemplated this. Not that their's was an especially warm greeting that morning either. Still...

Scarlett wasn't facing the foyer entrance at that moment and when Dilcey, about to leave the parlor, stopped suddenly and managed a curtsy, Scarlett immediately stood up and spun around, breathlessly locking eyes with the handsome intruder. Rhett had combed his jet-black hair and replaced his drenched clothing for clean, new pieces. His piercing black eyes glinted with the reflection of the fire, but there was no real light in them. Scarlett observed that he again wasn't wearing his mourning band. Scarlett's eyes flickered. And she was wearing earbobs –such rebels.

Rhett stopped in the doorway to the parlor and hadn't moved inside, even as Dilcey squeezed past him to leave. His eyes were on Scarlett's, and hers were appraising him head to toe, so he did the same. She wore a black gown, he noted with no surprise. But he also noted that she daringly wore her diamond earrings, the very same ones she had offered to sell him for the outrageous price of three hundred dollars while he was in the Yankee jail. Just then, Rhett wanted to laugh at the memory, but he held his tongue and moved silently past Scarlett toward the tray of refreshments.

Scarlett continued to stand, as if mesmerized by the sight of him, as though she had completely forgotten all about her conspiracy, and watched as he deliberately bent down and stole a rolled cigar from the little silver box next to the tea and cakes before sinking tiredly onto the gaudy, golden loveseat. Rhett hated it. Scarlett was possibly the only woman he knew that had such horrible taste.

He scraped a match against the sole of one of his polished shoes and lit the cigar with a flare, starting it up with a few quick puffs. Finally, he looked at Scarlett, standing there, and raised his eyebrows in mock amusement.

"Do sit down, my pet. You're making me nervous."

Scarlett sat down. Once again on the settee, across from Rhett, she rallied her own nerves. She had to say the right things. She couldn't make a mess of this. Suddenly her cheeks felt hot and she quickly bent her head so Rhett wouldn't notice. She disguised her jerky movement by taking the given opportunity to smooth her black skirts. Except, Rhett _had_ noticed, in fact he had been watching her – like a hawk watches its prey for movement – ever since he entered the parlor, Scarlett just hadn't realized it, and her attempts to cover her nervousness were in vain. But she didn't know that either. Desicively, she met his scrutinizing gaze, her glittering green eyes hitting him like a gust of wind. She put the Shakespeare down on the divan and gestured toward the tray between them, in the middle of the parlor.

"Will you take some sassafrass, Rhett?" she asked eagerly. "Or a bite of chiffon cake? Cook ma– "

Rhett shook his black head. "Thank you, no." Seeing her face drop, even in her most discreet manner possible, he safely added: "But, please, be my guest."

Scarlett perked up a little as she leaned over the tray and placed a miniature cake onto a small china saucer for herself. Rhett watched as she sat back down and hungrily nibbled at the little white cake. The corners of his mouth twitched. Scarlett always did have such an appetite, almost never able to wait until supper. It was good to see it never left.

Rhett cleared his throat and inquired, "What of the tea?"

Swallowing the last of her cake, Scarlett made a face as she wiped her hand on the napkin she'd taken. "I'm not especially fond of sassafrass. I don't know why Dilcey made it."

"Then what will you have, Scarlett?" he prodded, and caught her eyes flitting over to the decanter in the corner of the room. "You'll need to wash that cake down, surely."

Scarlett wanted a drink. And this was all very nerve-wracking. Would Rhett berate her if she went to the decanter? She knew she couldn't afford it if he did. No, he probably wanted a glass of brandy himself anyway. He might laugh at her, but Scarlett could undergo his sordid jeering without trouble if she had to. She grasped furiously for some kind of excuse, but to no avail.

Watching the stuttering performance that was Scarlett mentally deciding just what she should do, Rhett jumped to his feet and, with exaggerated grace, bowed with a hand held to his breast. "Allow me, my love. I could use a brandy same as you."

Scarlett wrung her, small white hands as he sauntered, chuckling, over to the cut-glass decanter. What was she thinking? Rhett has always been able to see through her like a veil, probably always would. Her plan was hopeless... Perhaps I'm being too cold, she thought, Maybe he thinks me insincere. With renewed energy and motivation, Scarlett straightened her posture and flashed a small, brilliant smile when Rhett turned back to her with two half-filled glasses of brandy.

He merely blinked when she smiled up at him, doing his best to maintain the passive veneer. He could never let on that he cared. Scarlett could never know – not about the guilt that pulverized his soul, not about the heartache for Bonnie, not his true feelings, not his love for her. No, especially not that. If Scarlett ever knew the true extent of his emotions, she could tear him to pieces. And Rhett Butler – Southern gentleman, daring blockade runner, artillery veteran, Scalawag, renegade, vagabond, the grandson of a Pirate – was a coward when it came to matters of the heart.

Thus, Rhett Butler's polished manners remained in his wife's presence, and yet they were forced and distant. When they happened upon each other in the mornings after breakfast, only sparse greetings were spoken between them. "Good morning, Mrs. Butler." On the unique occasions when one of them left _with_ the other's knowledge, parting expressions were always at a minimum. Scarlett didn't understand the tension, and she hated it, but she was at a loss how to remedy it. Rhett was aware of her pathetic, desperate attempts to reconcile, even reconstruct their marriage, but he made certain to always keep just out of her mad, flimsy reach.

And so, on that dark and dreary afternoon on Peachtree Street, a desperate wife was trying to appear convincing and caring toward her husband, while the miserable man of her target tried to hide the fact that he really did care about his wife, even trying to convince her otherwise. And outdoors, the rain did not stop it's cascade.

...

Scarlett O'Hara Butler politely accepted the glass of brandy being offered her. Nodding her thanks, she gently raised the glass and sipped, letting the warm, bitter liquid slide delectably down her throat. Rhett couldn't help but watch as her eyes closed momentarily, savoring the brandy, relishing the burn. Her cheeks flushed a faint, natural pink and her eyes fluttered open before taking another easy swallow. Rhett sat on the loveseat and bolted his brandy, never taking his eyes from her. Years of past unhindered drinking had consequently accustomed his throat to the burn of alcohol so that it fetched little more than a tingle, no longer eliciting even the smallest wince in reaction.

Setting down the fast-emptied glass with a clank, Scarlett looked at the languid tomcat lounging on the couch across from her, a new spark of determination in her eye.

"Mammy's gone, then?"

Rhett nodded, staring at his glass. "Yes, Mammy's gone."

"The train was on time for once, was it?" Scarlett scoffed. Arrivals and departures between Jonesboro and Atlanta were constantly behind schedule.

Rhett was silent. Scarlett shifted on the settee and absently rearranged her skirts.

"Rhett, I wanted to talk to you," she hesitated, "while the children are out." She risked a peek at him. His face was blank, but he was listening.

"Talk about what, Scarlett?" he asked, carelessly.

She leaned closer, excited and eager, looking up into his clear, black eyes. "Oh Rhett, darling, can't we go away somewhere? New Orleans, perhaps! We had such happy times last we were there!" Scarlett rambled, the words bubbling out of her chest, while Rhett only stared. She continued without pause: "... and we could take Ella and Wade with us this time. Unless, of course, if you'd rather–"

Abruptly, he stood up, stopping her mid-sentence, and poured himself a second drink. He shook his head to himself and took a long swig of the amber-colored liquid. Refilling his glass, he glanced up into the mirror above the waist-high bureau. Those deep green orbs stared back from behind him, startled and offended. Rhett sighed, then pivoted around.

"Rhett?"

He ran one of his big, powerful hands through his neatly combed hair, loosening those incurable stray pieces that were impossible to keep off of his forehead. Again, he shook his head.

"I know! Charleston, then! You can visit your mother there, and we could–"

"No, Scarlett, not New Orleans and not Charleston." His voice was quiet and his jaw clenched. "I took Bonnie visiting to both those places, and I won't go back. At least not for a long while." Rhett's solemn gaze rested on Scarlett's black mourning frock as he spoke.

Scarlett closed her mouth and kept quiet. What would she do now? Suddenly, Scarlett stood up. Being closer to Rhett's eye level was reassuring, and it gave her the edge she needed to draw him out. It was going to be hard. Rhett eyed her, warily.

"Rhett," she began, cautiously. "I – I wish we could talk about–" Before the name could leave her lips, he immediately spun, turning his back on her, and gripped the decanter, but she persisted. "We need to talk about her, Rhett. We need to talk about our baby!"

His shaky movements caused the decanter and the glass to clash with a loud, unpleasant clink. At hearing the words "our baby," Rhett violently turned on her; his tanned, swarthy face hard as stone, his black eyes as cold as night. She met his malevolent glare, her own bright green eyes hot with the sense of battle between them.

He growled under his breath, "Don't you dare speak of her."

Scarlett's smooth, shocking black eyebrows met in a hard V-shape, her small nostrils flared with fury and her mouth twisted into a snarl. "She was my daughter, too, Rhett. I adored her! Loved her!"

"Loved?" Rhett suddenly threw back his black head and his sardonic laughter swept coldly through the parlor. Scarlett balled her fists, but held her tongue. The warm brandy had left a daring, temptuous glow, but Rhett had had more to drink than her and she knew it. The smell of it on his breath was becoming stronger. He stopped laughing and leaned in, threateningly close to her face.

"Scarlett, you wouldn't know 'love' if it belted your backside – if you'll pardon the metaphor," he said. His slight merely went in one ear and out the other, for Scarlett O'Hara could not comprehend anything beyond her own physical security. Still, it sent Scarlett seething just the same. Even though she would possibly never completely grasp the veracity of his bitter remark, she did, however, sense that the insult should be swiftly and effectively rebuffed. Dignity must be maintained – that was Society's rule.

"Why, you–" she sputtered furiously. "You blackguard!"

Rhett smirked, but his eyes were apathetic and flat. "Let's don't start calling names, now." Scarlett's face had turned bright pink, so like Gerald O'Hara used to be when he was in a blistering rage. Rhett recalled that night, years ago, when he and Gerald played stud and got roaring drunk and Scarlett's father sang "Peg" in his boisterous brogue the whole way home to Pittypat's. All was well the next morning, considering the disaster that was avoided thanks to Rhett's crafty intervention on Scarlett's account. He remembered Gerald's red-faced temper then and could see it now before him, inherent on the pretty, Irish face belonging to his eldest daughter.

Though her eyes still smoldered with green fire, Scarlett O'Hara Butler squared her shoulders and set her jaw, determined not to give in to Rhett's petty mockery and insults. She had to get through to her husband – somehow. He arched his neck back and downed his third glass of brandy. Scarlett took in a deep breath.

"Rhett," she began again, slowly this time. "Don't you agree that a – a change of surroundings would be good for us? Even a short stay some place – any place! – but here."

Rhett's eyes were dark and foreboding as he listened to her sweet, pleading voice. Then his back became rigid and he narrowed his eyes at her. She stared up at him, the same nonsensical, paltry pleading that laced her words overwhelmed her almost-emerald eyes.

"That sounds right pretty, Scarlett," he said with mock-sincerity, "but it's so utterly useless."

Scarlett's eyes flashed and she moved in, closer to him. "But why?" she cried. "What do you mean 'useless'?" He dropped his head and, for once, did not meet her questioning eyes.

"You talk of you and I as if we were a couple, Scarlett. But we're not, even in the most primitive opinion," he croaked. "There is no 'us,' my dear. Perhaps it's time we admitted the fact," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. Finally he met her stricken countenance with his own, despite all of his efforts to appear not-caring. His heart was battering against his chest. He'd told her the truth, though he so longed for the lie – for her to return his love, that powerful, destructive love. Holding his breath and trying to calm his thundering heart, he waited for her to speak.

She was trying desperately to make sense of things. Rhett had never said he loved her, not once since they were married, and he knew that she hadn't loved him. He knew all about her life-long lust for another's man, and still he had married her. Why? Scarlett loved Ashley Wilkes, not Rhett Butler. Didn't she? Scarlett shuddered and her hands turned ice cold, despite the roaring fire a few feet away. Had she fallen out of love with Ashley? Had her love chilled over time? Did Rhett change her? Suddenly, her epiphany reached its climax and Ashley Wilkes was no longer the sole center of Scarlett O'Hara's world. She did not love him, she'd only wanted him. She wanted him because she could not have him. How ironic that sounds, Scarlett thought.

Rhett saw as her flushed face morphed into a shocking white, paler than her normal ivory tone. He frowned, concerned, and took hold of her small, loose shoulders. Instantly, his touch bringing her back to life, her shoulders stiffened under his grasp. Rhett remembered himself and quickly, if not rigidly, withdrew his hands and stepped backwards, knocking into the decanter bureau. He sidestepped past her, and Scarlett watched, feeling abandoned. She stared at herself in the pier glass behind the decanter. Expressionless, her face looked very strange to Scarlett. Acknowledging that her great and true love for Ashley was but a sham had left in her a feeling of limbo, as if there was no where to go, nothing to strive for; like she'd lost something. She blinked at her reflection, at a loss. Except... Rhett was there. He was always there, it seemed. He'd held her when she needed him just then, but she refused, shaking off his comforting hands. And yet she'd wanted them there. She wanted Rhett.

What had he just said? They 'weren't a couple,' that they never were. But I want for us to be a couple! she cried out in her head. We can't give up! All of a sudden she had the exhilarating urge to spin on her heel and cry and tell Rhett that she really could love him. But he would never believe her. Not after everything she'd done, all the hurtful things she'd said to him. No, she had to convince him, make him believe how much she truly wanted him.

Relaxing the tightened muscles in her arms and back, Scarlett slowly and deliberately turned to face Rhett. He sat slouched on the loveseat, tiredly fingering the glass in his hand. She thought he resembled a boy in school, awaiting an unavoidable scolding. Scarlett's mouth pricked at the corner, the beginnings of a smile. She wasn't going to scold him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He glanced up at her and she clasped her hands together.

"We used to be so happy – even before the War," Scarlett breezily reminisced. "Oh, I know we can be happy again!" Then she said quietly: "I am trying, Rhett."

Rhett was silent. The alcohol now had him feeling giddy, but his manners were as polished as ever, which is why he'd restrained himself from snorting in laughter at her pathetic attempts to display fellow-feeling. Instead – and contrary to popular belief – behaving like the gentleman he was, Rhett Butler merely tossed his head from right to left in disagreement. He sounded like a battle-weary soldier – like one of the former Lads in Gray.

"Its not enough to simply 'try,' Scarlett," he said, "That will not be enough."

In a flurry, Scarlett was kneeling before him, her earbobs bouncing against a few stray, soft black curls and flashing with light reflections. Her hand clutched his knee frantically.

"But – but if we, both of us, tried, Rhett? If you only got out of this funk! Why, everything might go back to the way it was! Oh, Rhett, things will get better!"

Rhett shut his eyes and didn't make a reply, sending Scarlett to the edge.

"God's nightgown, Rhett!" she cried. "Say something!"

Unable to further endure her relentless begging, Rhett threw her hand from his knee and rose up to fill his entire six feet and two inches. Scarlett stood, too, but drew a cautious step backwards. Rhett was so tense and yet poised at the same time. He glowered at his wife, making her feel as small as a field mouse next to a big black panther. She had ignited that spark inside of him, that all-too-familiar spark that plunged him spiralling out of control and reason. It caused him to do things that were normally unthinkable and totally irrational. He had felt this way the night before Sherman's troops invaded Atlanta, the night he had risked life and limb to get the woman he loved to safety – he felt reckless. That is what Scarlett O'Hara did to him. And now she was doing it to him again, the poor soul.

"Damn you, Scarlett O'Hara!" he snarled, unable to help himself. He had relinquished control of his tongue to his animalistic intincts now, and all polished manners went flying out the window as he spoke. "Why?" he very nearly shouted. "Why should I _try_ to do anything, Scarlett? What possible _good _would that do now?" His face was barely inches away from hers and she was suddenly afraid of him. And the next moment she was quaking with anger.

"You're a coward, Rhett Butler," Scarlett's voice shook with rage, "if you're going to give up that easily," she challenged him brazenly, her knuckles white.

He glared at her with intrepid, black eyes, but his voice was eerily placid, as if he had just been discussing something so trivial as the change in prices after the War with an old chum. It was disconcerting to Scarlett, who was almost too excited to breathe.

"Firstly, madam, you are correct: I am a coward. I have been a coward all my life and I intend to remain one. It has carried me thus far in life, after all," he paused briefly to let her ingest the words before launching into a second tirade. "But as for your second affront, however, you've been gravely mistook. If anyone in this sad partnership would be so easy and willing to give the other up, it would most certainly _not_ be me." His words were firm and accusatory. When Scarlett failed to protest his broaching suggestion, he continued on, sardonically. "Come, my pet. We both know that, provided the perfect opportunity, you would abandon me for the _honorable_ Ashley Wilkes at any moment."

The word "honorable" literally oozed sarcasm. Somewhat shocked by how effortlessly Rhett could read her, she blinked her bright eyes. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, while Rhett watched in dark amusement, his eyes hot with that otherwise faultlessly concealed anger that boiled just beneath the surface. At length, Scarlett found her voice.

"But I–" she caught herself in time. She couldn't tell Rhett that she wanted_ him_, now, and not Ashley – he'd only laugh at her in that insolent manner she knew so well and call her a superficial imp. Scarlett did her utmost to keep her composure and said coolly, "I would not. I don't want him anymore."

Indignantly, Rhett breathed in through his nose, fast and deep, making his chest rise beneath his finely-tailored shirt and evening jacket. His nostrils flared and his mouth twitched at her words. As much as he yearned for them to be true, he wasn't stupid. No person could possibly change their feelings completely just overnight. He wouldn't listen.

Yet Scarlett persisted, imploring passionately, "I don't love him, Rhett. I don't love Ashley!"

That was the "straw that broke the camel's back." Rhett couldn't stand one more of her lies. She was so close he could see every minute muscle movement in her face. Completely incensed, Rhett irately thrust out his hand and siezed her, closing his fingers around the tiny circumference of her wrist with a thick, heavy grip. Scarlett was unable to suppress the faint yelp of surprise at his sudden violence. Wildly, she searched his tanned features for a semblance of something – anything – that would give her a clue as to what he wanted, her eyes wide with excitement and the thrill of danger. Rhett's tone was hoarse, sounding more like an animal's growl than anything human.

"Do not _lie_ to me!" His grasp tightened and flexed around the taut flesh of her wrist. Frightened, she tried to speak up, but he ignored her. "I said before that I would never tolerate your lies, Scarlett – _never_!" he reiterated through clenched teeth.

Scarlett squirmed under him, from both the bruising hold on her forearm and the offensive fume of the brandy on his breath. Resolutely, she stood still and squarely and locked onto his gaze. Her eyes narrowed, combatively, becoming venomous green slits against her warm, glowing visage. She would not stand here and be manhandled by this tipsy, jealous fool, even if she had wanted to save him earlier from his own moodiness. The area of flesh under his strong, crushing hand was beginning to throb painfully.

"Turn me loose. You're going to leave a mark," she said flatly. Suddenly, Rhett stared down, as though he'd forgotten that he clutched her small wrist in such a vice-grip, and promptly cast her hand away from his body, as if it would burn his skin to the touch. He quietly retreated one step back, but the ferocity was still present in his eyes. Her hand was freed, but Scarlett refrained from comfortingly rubbing the red bruises that replaced his fingers. Instead, she glared up at her husband, her words like ice in the heated room.

"I remember what you said. I wasn't lying," she said, her eyes aflame with green fire and her voice unshaken and bitter. "I must have been out of my head to even _think_ I might love you, Rhett Butler. You're nothing but a cad and a selfish, unworthy brute!" she swore and, furiously whipping around, she turned on her black-slippered heels, and hastened out of the parlor, through the foyer and up the grand staircase, her buxom black skirts floating gracefully after her.

...

Rhett stood motionless in the parlor, silent except for the occasional crackle of wood in the fire. His head was spinning. Had Scarlett really just admitted to loving him, or at least _almost _loving him? He knew he couldn't believe it, but...

How her eyes had blazed green when she called him out! It was enough to bring a man to his senses; enough to bring Rhett out of his liquored lethargy. He thought again of those striking green eyes of hers. He frowned. Just prior to her flight through the parlor doors, he'd noticed something there – an oddity in her expression; a moist, over-glistening of her eyes. Tears! The realization hit him as if Scarlett herself had slapped him across the face. Scarlett O'Hara crying? Why, Scarlett never permitted herself to cry in front of him if she could help it.

Only a few select times had Rhett actually been privy to a true, openly weeping Scarlett. The first being that chaotic, hellish night that he helped her to evacuate Atlanta; when she was desperate and yearning for Tara, and for the solace of her mother's embrace. She'd beaten his chest and he'd held her until she collapsed wearily against him and sobbed. Another time that he'd seen Scarlett cry was the night he proposed to her; the night of Frank Kennedy's funeral. Scarlett had been nearly drunk when he came to her, and not-soon-after she was sniveling into his monogrammed handkerchief and babbling inebriatedly about going to Hell for causing her husband's death. Of course, Rhett had talked sense to her and then promptly asked her to become his wife. On both occasions Rhett Butler was there, equipped with his expertly-tailored sleeves to help dry her eyes.

The third and most recent time he recalled her shedding genuine tears was during those days after Bonnie died, when she and Rhett had matched their cutting tongues in expunging verbal battles over their dead child. Rhett cringed at the fresh memories – they were moments he would never forget. He had been constantly intoxicated every time Scarlett tried to see him. There was that one horrible night, when Scarlett forced herself into his bedroom where he kept Bonnie's body, demanding to see her baby. Cruelly, he'd called her out, saying she never loved Bonnie anyway. In turn, she mercilessly accused him of murdering his own daughter. Scarlett had wept in an anguished, heartbroken rage. But this time, Rhett had not consolingly offered his handkerchief, soothed her with words, or held her. No, Rhett had been the source of the tears – he had hurt Scarlett.

And now he had hurt her again, though it was the last thing he wanted. Rhett couldn't bear to see Scarlett in pain. He loved her, cherished her, too much. And yet but a few moments ago his blazing temper, paired with the subtle affect of alcohol, had gotten the best of Rhett. The very thought of the brutality with which he'd treated Scarlett caused his stomach to turn over. He had actually physically displayed his hot, galling fury, and yet she had held up her head and kept a brave front, bearing the brunt of his abuse... and then she ran away. He drove her away.

Wracked with guilt and shame and anger toward himself, Rhett's throat suddenly felt dry and his breathing constricted, so he tore away the unwanted cravat and hurled it to the floor. Exhaustion claimed him then, both bodily and mentally. His whole body felt as if he was again working at Dunmore Landing, his family's rice plantation in Charleston; and his mind felt like he had gone for hours dodging the search lights of Federal picket boats and warships during an especially precarious blockade run. With a heaving sigh, he dropped onto the settee where Scarlett had sat. The movement dislodged the copy of Shakespeare's play, making it fall noiselesly to the floor. Rhett was oblivious.

"Oh, Scarlett," he whispered, burying his haggard face in the palms of his calloused hands. "Scarlett."

It was very quiet in the parlor. The fire had died down to a few small flames that licked hopefully at the last, spent piece of wood. The blood pulsating through his veins and arteries sounded like waves crashing to his ears and his breathing loud and raspy. Suddenly, his ears picked up the faint pattering of feet directly above his head, and he knew at once where Scarlett had taken refuge. Rhett opened his eyes and stared into his hands, unthinkingly examining the lines that had been engraved over the years.

He had acted shamefully with her. Rhett retraced that other drunken, primal night when he had proceeded indecently with her; ravished her, mad with passion and the overpowering need to prove something. His face warmed at the memory. It had been he, then, who had run away and hidden from her, scared of her reaction, embarassed and ashamed by what he had done. For months afterward, even following Scarlett's miscarriage, they still uncomfortably avoided the subject.

Rhett narrowed his eyes at the thought. He couldn't let that happen again. She had to know he didn't mean to hurt her. He couldn't – wouldn't – let this end where it had.

...

Quick as her legs would carry her, Scarlett ascended the red-carpeted stairs and turned down the dark, barely lit hallway of the west wing. She said a speedy prayer of thanks that she was able to leave the parlor – and Rhett – as soon as she did. Nothing was going as she planned; Scarlett just had to find a way to leave. And most importantly, Rhett had not witnessed the two, salty tears stream down her face as she whisked herself up the steps.

Damn that heartless varmint! Scarlett stalked stormily down the dead-quiet hall towards her bedroom, tears flowing freely now and unrestrained. Angry, she used the back of her hand to roughly wipe away the glistening wet tracks running down her cheeks, past her chin. Finally inside, she slammed the door of her room and leaned her back on it, pressing her brocade-covered hoops up against the walnut-carved door. Her chest heaved under her stays, praying for more air than it was recieving at the moment. She was laced much too tight; Dilcey was better purported to wringing out wet linen than handling ladies corsets. However, since Mammy had left the job had been passed to Pork's hardworking wife.

Scarlett scowled when she thought of Rhett, and the tears began to fall again. Why was he so mean? She caressed her red-blotched wrist soothingly. She looked down at her hand. It hadn't actually hurt, and it didn't sting much now, but there was a mark where his fingers had taken hold of her, and there had been that despairing, rabid look in his eyes when he grabbed her. That look haunted her and she didn't know the reason. And she didn't understand why she could not stop this stupid, infernal crying! Besides, why on earth should she let Rhett bother her this way? Emotionally drained, Scarlett leaned her head back, softly touching the walnut door and tried to stop crying. Her convulsing neck and quivering lips eventually slowed, leaving only the last whimpering sniffles and hiccups and haphazard swipes under her nose.

Scarlett squeezed her eyes shut. "Stop... Just stop, Scarlett, stop," she ordered herself, jadedly.

A sound arrested her attention and her eyes sprung wide open. It came from below stairs. Surely, Rhett wouldn't follow her up here, would he? Suddenly panicking, Scarlett's eyes darted from side to side, her long, ebony curls dancing with each abreviated jerk of her head. What if he was coming up here? Her pulse quickened, but her blood felt as if it had turned cold. What would he do? Was he really that angry with her? Strangely, Scarlett was half frightened and half thrilled at the same instant. Secretly, she yearned eagerly for a repeat of that one unforgettable, lustful night; that night Rhett had lost control of himself, but _taken_ control of her. Scarlett's eyes sparkled with reminiscence and her cheeks were made pink.

Footfalls approaching from the landing at the top of the stairs brought her back to the present, and she rapidly began blinking away the remaining tears and gently padded her dampened face dry with one of her black lace-embroidered sleeves.

...

Rhett Butler's frustrated voice rang out within the dark, carpeted hall, echoing off of the carved mahogany walls. Only one gas jet was lit, and it gave off an eerie glow, the plush red carpet affecting the light to a faint reddish-amber. The westward hall of the gothic Peachtree Street house was virtually unfurnished and bare, excepting three additional gaslights that went unlit, and a small, black end table that stood directly beneath the high, curtained window at the very end of the thirty foot hall. On it was a single white doily, barely the size of a saucer, which conspicuously stood out from the majority of the surrounding decor.

In this west wing of the Butler home, on the second floor of the mansion, three rooms branched from the macabre hallway: Scarlett O'Hara Butler's bedroom, Scarlett's private powder room, which was conveniently connected to the bedroom, and a small, rectangular study that was for Scarlett's own personal use. Scarlett's bedroom was at the farthest end of the great, dark hall and that was where Rhett Butler's impatient feet were marching him. His mouth twisted into a grimace and he called out a second time.

"Scarlett!"

His arms swung beside him in shortlived arcs, his hands taut, their fingers spread out like two fans. Rhett stalked down the hall towards the last elaborately carved door on the end. On arrival, he burst inside without bothering to knock, or even pound, on the heavy walnut door. Scarlett's bedroom was decorated as if for a queen: gold-framed, cushion upholstered boards for the head and foot ends of her outrageously large, rectangular bed, with all four corners adorned with golden posts decoratively etched in double roses and dainty ivy; her cream-colored satin bedding had, at certain angles, a golden, shimmery look; all six pillows, the top mattress, and entire bed spread sated full of lush duck feathers. Scarlett's over-sized bed was the focal point of the entire bedroom, and Rhett had previously never taken the time to notice anything beside it whenever he was there, and he wasn't going to start now.

Alarmed by his unannounced intrusion, Scarlett had hurriedly and clumsily skipped away from the door to a safe distance just before he threw it open, and now she stood spun around a few feet away from, and staring at, Rhett. He was panting from his race there, and his mouth was in a tight grimace if ever she saw one, and he was glowering, though not exactly at her. She noticed that his cravat had been discarded in the meantime, and the first few buttons of his ruffled white shirt were unabashedly open, the top of his swarthy, wiry-haired chest in plain view. Face and neck were gleaming with sweat, as though he had been down by the fire too long.

Scarlett's small, white hand flew up to her mouth, but did not frantically cover it as most proper ladies would do if accosted like this, it simply remained apprehensively afloat at her chin. Scarlett had tried to eliminate all evidence that she'd been crying, drowing in tears, mere seconds before, but she did not realize that her efforts were in vain. Her face felt dry, but it was blotchy and red in appearance and her lashes were brimmed with trapped tears. Fresh, dark stains ran down the front of her basque, and Rhett's canny eyes did not miss the quivering of her red lips. She stared at him, wide-eyed, like a frightened horse freezing up amidst a burning stable. Her bosom swelled each time she breathed, constrained beneath her stays. A foolishly unwarranted contraption, he'd always thought. Scarlett's mouth opened warily.

"Yes?" she croaked, regaining her manners. Her eyes were lowered, she couldn't look at him.

Rhett didn't speak at first, just stood there in the doorway with his hand gripping the knob, trying to recall why he had even been compelled to come up here. What did he plan on doing? He stepped inside the room and sedately shut her door, all the while keeping his watchful gaze aimed at Scarlett. He was right: she'd been crying... crying because of him. His eyes diverted to her left side where her arm hung, slacken. Scarlett's wrist was much less red now, and he thanked God for it. Rhett moved towards her. He wanted to hold her, massage her, caress her bruises, kiss it better, to simply make her pain go away. He wanted to apologize, for so many things. But as he came closer, arms outstretched at thirty degree angles, Scarlett edged nervously away from him. Rhett froze as soon as he saw the distrust and suspicion and fear impressioned in those betraying, emerald-green eyes.

Scarlett's fists closed tightly, defensively, as she collected her wits. "What is it you want?" she asked shortly. Rhett fumbled for the words, but Scarlett impatiently curbed him sharply. "You haven't come to 'have your way with me,' as you've done before, have you?"

Her scathing remark, paired with a tone so vehement and accusatory, made Rhett visibly shudder. Scarlett's eyes flared, bright and impetuous from her small victory. Rhett, however, would not make it that easy to injure him. He straightened and stiffened and clamped his jaw set.

"I have no desire to hurt you, Scarlett. I only wish to apologize for my crude behavior in the parlor. I–" he hesitated. "I never meant to do to you like that," Rhett's voice faltered and he lowered his eyes with shame. "I am truly sorry for it, Scarlett."

It was the first time Scarlett actually took notice of the numerous lines and cracks in Rhett's visage. His deep, sun-browned skin was creased under and at the corners of his eyes, around his mouth, on his forehead. That devilish black hair was shiny and thick, and his eyebrows were just as thick and black. Previously, Scarlett O'Hara only had eyes for the lean, golden-haired, placid, gray-eyed Ashley Wilkes, and thus compared every other gentleman she knew with him. Physically, each man was vastly different than Ashley, and whether they were better men or not was beside the point for Scarlett. Ashley was a phenomena she never could understand.

Charles Hamilton, on the otherhand, was plain and easy to understand. Her first husband was such a boy, infatuated with anything that glimmered attractively in the sunlight or anyone who fluttered her lashes flirtatiously. And old, whiskered Frank Kennedy was the type of man that always knew – always planned – that he'd make an excellent husband one day. Too bad that got him killed, Scarlett thought gravely. There was no man to compare with Ashley Wilkes; not Charles, Frank, or the Tarleton and Calvert boys, definitely not Will Benteen, not even Pa. He was situated on a pedestal that Scarlett stubbornly refused to let topple.

And then the charming, masculine Captain Rhett Butler encroached upon her life, and Scarlett had been shell-shocked by the cunning, selfish spirit he displayed for all of Georgia to gawk. He was so incredibly like herself! Rhett was vivacious, alive, and wise. Although Scarlett never thought much about it, he understood things about Ashley that had constantly eluded her. Rhett was likeable and condescending at the same time. He also harbored a vicious malice that Scarlett was too preoccupied to notice most of the time. And there was that way he stared at Scarlett, those funny looks that she'd often find on his face when he assumed she wasn't aware of his watching her. He seemed patient, as if he was waiting for something to appear in her pale green eyes. For what, Scarlett hadn't the faintest idea, and every time she simply shrugged it off.

Here was Rhett Butler now, standing a couple of feet away from her, his swarthy skin and dark hair making his teeth and the whites of his eyes stand out. The bulk of his broad shoulders and rippled torso were hidden beneath the broad cloth suit he wore, and only visible to ones who knew they were there. Scarlett knew all too well what went concealed while Rhett was fully clothed. Her heart beat quickened as she admired him head to toe and back up again. Yes, this time Scarlett had to acknowledge whole-heartedly that this man, her swarthy muscular husband, was indeed a handsome, fine-looking man. And, now that she'd thought about it and no longer preserved that prejudiced pedestal for Ashley Wilkes, Scarlett concluded that Rhett Butler was possibly more becoming, more dashing, than even Ashley himself, or any other man for that matter. Captain Butler was exquisite.

Blinking, Scarlett broke from her reverie, and the captain was staring at her, his eyes fishing for something in hers, waiting for her to speak, waiting for anything.

"Pardon me?" She didn't remember what he'd been saying.

Rhett cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other and said wryly, "I was merely apologizing for some of my countless indiscretions." He could still smell the unpleasant brandy on his own breath, and he pursed his lips. Scarlett nodded, vaguely, but she remembered now, as well as the fact that she was still cross with him.

Flippantly, she said, "Oh, you're _sorry_, are you? What for?" Scarlett scoffed, tossing her head. "There be nothin' can lick Katie Scarlett O'Hara," she mimicked Gerald's Irish tongue. "Even you have said so, Rhett." Watching out of the corner of her eye, she saw some of the tension dissipate in Rhett's face. Perhaps her plan hadn't failed after all, perhaps it wasn't too late. "Sir, the Yankees couldn't lick me. I'm sure you won't have much success either."

Unconsiously, Rhett breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was still angry at him, that much he knew, but she acted so gay, as if it was only a bad joke. He wasn't so sure of what she was going to do. He frowned and took a tentative step closer.

"What are you playing at, Scarlett?" he questioned in a low, flat voice.

Scarlett shook her head at him. "Oh, don't be a goose! I don't know why you were worried about _me_." She jutted out her small, square chin in puntucation. Rhett bristled, but held his tongue. She didn't fool him for one second. He'd seen the tears, and he was staring at the blatant evidence of her injury. He _was_ worried, but he didn't dare show it. Better to play coy, or ignorant – or both. Rhett watched her closely. She kept her eyes lowered, but under the heat of his watchful eye her cheeks reddened. Rhett wondered what she must be thinking.

He was standing so near that barely five inches of space seperated them. She was aware of his unscrupulous gaze beating down on her, and when she thought of what she had originally purposed for the evening, Scarlett blushed, embarassed, as if Rhett might somehow read her thoughts. It made her emeraldine eyes that much brighter, and Rhett noticed. He ventured another half step forward and, as he carefully reached for her hand, Scarlett quickly twirled around before he could touch her.

With her back to him, Scarlett's breath was coming in rapid, quiet gasps. He was so close. Could she possibly follow through with her earlier scheme? Scarlett recalled very well what Dr. Meade had said once about Rhett – what the only cure for him would be. After all, he'd loved Bonnie to distraction. She was his whole world. Surely he could love like that again, if he had another child. Oh, if she could give him a boy this time! A little boy would make Rhett the most love-sick father in Atlanta all over again. Scarlett's thudding heart calmed, and she let out a small, contented sigh. Maybe...

Rhett was taken aback when Scarlett turned away so abruptly, but he wasn't about to be ignored or driven away. Did she know how sorry he was? Of course, it wouldn't matter what he said or did. Scarlett wouldn't appreciate him because she didn't love him. She never loved him, and he had been a fool to even marry her. It was true, _he_ loved _Scarlett_ – he always had – but it had evidently proven insufficient in keeping them a happy couple. Rhett thought of what she'd said earlier about New Orleans. Scarlett was right, they had been their happiest honeymooning in New Orleans. She had been radiant, aglow with delight; gorging herself on the finest Creole cuisine and wines and champagnes; shopping with Rhett in the days and attending balls and receptions with him at night; sending trunks and trunks of new things back to Atlanta before their return.

He remembered how comfortable and snugly she fit sleeping in his arms, and he remembered their sweet mornings together, which often became afternoons without their noticing. Her creamy white skin was so tender and soft, her breasts so perfectly round, her long wavy hair so dark and volumnious, her lips so full, her cheeks so pink, her green eyes so strikingly cat-like. Scarlett was perfect then, and she was perfect now, as he stared down the back of her neck and then up, examining her pulled-back raven hair, and the stark contrasting whiteness of her neck. She was wearing her evening gown – dyed black – and her shoulders were left bare. Rhett inhaled her scent. The cologne she wore smelled faintly of lemon, but her hair smelled like her, Scarlett, and he made sure to plant his feet more firmly on the floor in case he should want to... go somewhere. Those diamond earbobs hung from her ears, sparkling, and his eyes traveled down her neck and chest from behind. Rhett swallowed.

"Scarlett," he said, his voice hoarse. His hot, brandy-laced breath was warm on her neck and she shuddered in response. Possibly with pleasure. Still, she did not turn around. "I am sorry," he repeated and placed a large, tanned hand on each of her small, unresisting yet stiffened shoulders.

She raised her chin, pretending not to recognize the placement of his hands on her body. "Yes, so you've said," she said tersely.

"Have I your forgiveness, dear?"

Scarlett gave a curt nod, no. "I'm not sure I _can_ forgive you, Mr. Butler." Scarlett revelled whenever she possessed power over Rhett Butler and, right now, it certainly felt that way. It was exhilarating.

Rhett's hands moved on her shoulder, massaging up her neck. "Pray tell how I might convince you, Mrs. Butler," – his fingers grazed down the unclothed portion of her spine – "that I truly am sorry," he whispered into her ear.

Her eyes fluttered at his touch, but she still would not face him – not yet. Scarlett wanted a baby, was desperate for a baby. But she wanted Rhett to want a baby, too. Until she knew, she would wait.

After so long, the scent of her was more intoxicating than ever, the contact of his hands on her heated skin producing a sensation like that of a hot, bright match flare. Years had passed since Rhett was banished from Scarlett's bedroom, and months since "that night," and the sublimination was taking its toll. How he wanted her! Rhett had to bite down on his tongue to avoid either cursing or groaning. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, knew he should take his hands off her. Rhett wrestled with himself. Yes, he wanted Scarlett. He loved Scarlett, although his misfortune it may be. But he refused to be humiliated – again. No, Rhett couldn't let his affection be known to Scarlett, and he absolutely could _not_ give in to his own desires and lusts.

He was still angry because of her lusting after that fool Wilkes. Jealous, too, but he had vowed before to never again use Scarlett's body to make a point the way he had "that night." Scarlett was not aware of Rhett's resolutions, however. His dark eyes clouded seditiously. Why not make her squirm?

Scarlett's heart thumped loudly as Rhett leaned down to her ear. "Any suggestions, my pet?"

"Um."

"Yes?" From behind, Rhett bent and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, tasting her for the first time in what seemed like a hundred years. He stifled a moan. Scarlett gasped when he kissed her, but she did not shy away or face him, either. He kissed her again, but on the opposite side.

"Um." Her mind was a blank. "Oh..." He kissed her a third time. Then again.

"Perhaps like this?" He smirked, and trailed tender little kisses all along her spine and shoulders and neck and jaw.

Scarlett's eyes were closed, but after a while she rediscovered her voice. "Rhett?"

"Hmm?" He continued to kiss her, his hands journeying over her black basque, caressing.

"Can we– Would you–" she hesitated for a minute, uncertain.

"Spit it out, Scarlett," he encouraged in his Charlestonian drawl.

"Do you want another baby?" she blurted.

The caressing and the kissing and the fondling stopped short. She could not know his reaction because could not see his face. Anxiously, Scarlett finally spun back towards him. His expression was hard, but there was surprise in it. So this was what she wanted, Rhett finally understood. The green orbs that stared up at him were desperate and pleading.

His eyes narrowed, but one of his brows skidded up. "No, I don't think I do, Scarlett." Rhett's voice was quiet. Her mouth was agape. "Why?" Rhett asked.

Scarlett shifted her gaze from him to the floor, but Rhett took hold of her chin and tilted her face back up again. She blinked nervously.

"Why do you think I want a baby?" he prodded.

"Oh, Rhett, you got so strange when Bonnie died," she began, "and Dr. Meade said that the best thing for you would be a baby!" Scarlett scanned his face for even a shred of encouragment. "Think of it, Rhett! How happy we would be!"

Rhett said nothing and moved back a step, taking his hands with him. Then he shook his head. "I _was_ happy with Bonnie. And with you, and Wade and Ella. But things are different now, Scarlett." His brows creased as he scowled at himself. "I don't think they will ever be the same." Scarlett watched, dumbfounded, as he silently moved toward the door of her bedroom.

Feebly, she called out, "Wait!"

Rhett Butler paused and turned to her, his eyes already reverted back to that same listless state from before. "I'll take my supper in my room." He opened her door. "Good night, my dear," he said, and closed it behind him, leaving Scarlett O'Hara confused and alone in that grand, gaudy bedroom of hers, where she would try unsuccessfully for hours to comprehend just what he meant when he said "good night."


End file.
